


Ginny's Boots

by alyxpoe



Series: The Homeless Network [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, The Homeless Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first job I did for Sherlock, he’d not even introduced himself, only produced a photo out of thin air after stepping right up to me in the park one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ginny's Boots

**Ginny’s Boots**

“Ginny! The puffs are ready, would you mind grabbing them out of the oven?” Mrs. Hudson calls to me from the hallway.

“Yes, ma’am!” I answer her through the open door as I set the scissors and tape down on the table beside the package I’ve been wrapping for about fifteen years. I’m totally pants at this gift-wrapping business but it’s for a good cause, so here I am. I sigh as I head towards the kitchen, right now walking feels more like rocking back and forth on a cruise ship.

Trying not to overthink it, I grab an oven mitt from the bench as I pass into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson is right, as always, her instinct for baking once again catching the pastries before the egg-timer goes off. I haul the big, flat pan covered with the lightly browned pastry puffs out of the oven and set it flat on the hob, then reach into the fridge for the bowl of chocolate icing we mixed up earlier. Instead of letting it warm up, I stick the bowl into the microwave and press a button. I’m not really paying attention to which button, because I go ahead and count to thirty anyway then take the thin plastic bowl and pinch it slightly, the way she showed me, making a bit of a spout in order to drizzle the icing over the dimply little pastries.

The job finished, I step back and admire my work. Not too terrible, really, since I’m a novice at this baking business…well, at cooking at all. I am pretty proud of myself, though, I can actually cook real meals now, stuff that’s more nutritious than scrambled eggs and beans-on-toast. My back twinges a little so I grab a chair from the tiny table she’s got in here and sit down. That’s much better.

“Well, that took long enough!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims as she bustles into the kitchen, wiping her hands on the pink, flowery apron she’s wearing. She looks over at the puffs then down at me and frowns. In an instant, she’s pulling out the other chair and lifting both my feet and carefully setting them down on the seat; she glares at my boots but doesn’t say anything. I know they aren’t the most stylish things out there, but they fit me well and the soles are tough enough to withstand the strain of being out in the street.

Well, sometimes I forget, but old habits die hard, yeah?

“Young lady, I’ve no idea what you are thinking, forgetting to put your feet up! I’m sure John has told you a dozen times if not more that you’ve got to keep the circulation in your legs and it will keep your ankles from swelling.” She tries hard to sound so stern, but honestly, it doesn’t work at all.

Before I can answer her, I hear the voices of two men in the hallway. These two always stomp down the stairs as if they were firemen or elephants. Maybe firefighting elephants? I don’t know, but they make enough noise to raise the dead.

“Hold on a minute,” Mrs. Hudson calls out, “Come on in here Joseph and Billy, I’ve got packages for you to take.”

Billy and Joseph, two other members of what we loosely term our little club to be, The Homeless Network, bounce into the kitchen with big smiles on their faces. Of course, most of the members of this club actually started out that way, so it’s not so badly named.

If there were ever two mis-matched friends, it’s these two. Joseph is a big man with broad shoulders and a round face and these enormous brown eyes. He’s got nicely chiseled features that are only slightly marred by a long, puckered scar along the side of his face. Today he’s wearing borrowed trousers and shoes and he grins at me beneath a trilby that somehow doesn’t look so out-of-place on his head. I notice he’s even managed to tame that wild head of curly hair he’s got, as well. He actually looks really nice today.

Beside him, Billy—I refuse to call him Wiggy, that’s just stupid—is a little shorter, much leaner built than Joseph. He’s wearing a dark suit that makes me laugh, along with those big feet of his tucked into a ridiculously shiny pair of wingtips. I wonder if he realizes weddings are supposed to be _happy_ occasions.

“Why are you laughing at me, Ginny?” Billy asks, his blue eyes actually filled with what must be worry. He tries so hard to please everyone.

“Oh, Billy, you look like the Penguin.” I tell him with a (mostly) straight face.

Joseph snorts. He gets my joke anyway. Billy just frowns at me because he never gets my jokes. Which is really saying something, because he’s as British as me! “What?”

I can’t help it, I’m laughing again and so hard this time that a sharp pain lances its way across my side under my ribcage. I double over but the very idea of Billy Wiggins being a ruthless villain from a Batman episode is simply too hilarious to pass by. I can just see his dirty-blond hair sticking up like a weird topknot. God, I wish I could draw.

Mrs. Hudson sweeps into the kitchen, glaring at both the boys. “What have you two done now?”

Joseph smiles down at me, “She’s not cryin’ this time, Mrs. Hudson.” Billy nods so hard it looks like he’s going to break his silly neck. Joseph talks funny, sometimes, I think he told me he was born in Missouri. Or maybe it was Illinois. I don’t know, one of the ‘oys,’ anyway. It’s fine, though, I like him. I like both of them, actually, as well as I can like the males of our species at the moment. These two are more like brothers to me, so that’s good, too.

And about the crying thing, well, yeah, he’s right. Since these two have decided they need to ‘take care of’ me, I feel like I’ve gained a couple of babysitters. Of course, a few weeks ago they were more like bodyguards. But that’s okay, too, you know, when you are almost eight months pregnant, you need all the help you can get and I now know that I can count Joseph and Billy as a friends. A girl needs as many as she can get.

Especially when she’s been through what I have. I owe my life to all of the people in this building right now, from Joseph and Billy to Mrs. Hudson and the two men upstairs who are supposed to be getting ready for the big day, but in reality, are probably snogging like teenagers. I don’t need to tell you that I’ve sure learned why Mrs. Hudson gets so flustered sometimes! She’s says it’s like having her own sons in a way, except that they…well, you can see how that just falls apart right there. I’ve suggested to her that maybe only one of them is her adopted son and her eyes got a little wet so I decided to shut up because dammit, if anyone around me cries right now I’m like bloody Niagara Falls.

My name is Ginny McNeil, and I’m pleased to meet you. I’d get up, but this load is sort of heavy right now. I’m fairly certain this baby is planning his escape pretty soon. Just not today, okay kid?

Yeah, I’m sure that grabbed your interest. Since you are here for the wedding and we have plenty of time, I’ve heard that John’s sister hasn’t even shown up yet…anyway, we have some time and it appears I’m not going anywhere for a while…feel like keeping me company for a bit?

~~~

It was the day I lost my left boot. Such a stupid thing, too, you know? I’d been sitting and hadn’t realized that the laces had come undone. This slow drizzle had been coming down all day and since my rear was parked on a cold bench in the park all day I hadn’t had much time to pay attention to my footwear.

What was I doing there, you ask?

Well, it’s like this. I work for this detective who lives here in London, except for that time he had to leave, but he’s here now and I don’t think he’s going anywhere like that ever again…anyway, I’m sort of like the ‘ears and eyes of the city’…or at least that’s what he says; yet he calls John the ‘romantic.’

I can’t complain. It’s been a steady stream of income for me for several months, it’s been enough that I can now share a little flat with three other girls, and we all get along pretty well together. Whatever, though, you know? I’d be happy sleeping inside a real flat instead of one made of boxes, regardless of how many of us had to split the bills.

But what happened was on a different day, okay?

I was on my way to the park that morning when this black guy stopped me and handed me two quid. I couldn’t believe my eyes but I remember thanking him then remembering the scar on his face. Of course, I know that’s Joseph now, but at the time I thought I’d just gotten lucky because here’s this guy handing me money and not asking anything in return.

It was surreal.

So I bought myself a cuppa and I remember looking at the remaining quid and wondering what I was going to do with it. I stuffed it into my pocket and walked to the meeting place. A little while later, right in the middle of the crowd that just parted around us like water goes around a stone, on the street he’s showing me a photograph of the guy I’m supposed to look out for. I look up to him and into those funny-shaped and funny-colored eyes and he’s looking right back at me.

I learned a long time ago that if you live on the street, you suddenly become an un-person. Sometimes people look at you, but it’s generally with an expression of annoyance like you’ve stepped in a pile of dog poo somewhere or some drunk looks at me like I’m his dessert. Yeah, that’s happened. I know it’s happened to a couple of the guys, too. At least that’s what Billy told me happened to that little bloke, Kyle.

But I can’t get into that now, mostly because I don’t want to make you sad on a day that’s supposed to be so happy. I was talking about Sherlock’s eyes, wasn’t I?

Okay. So I’m looking up and trying to decide what color they are, and then he’s talking to me. And it was about more than the guy I’m supposed to be watching out for, too. He says to me, and I swear he said it so low I almost didn’t hear it over the white noise of the crowd around us. When Sherlock Holmes talks low, it’s almost bloody _subsonic_. And it rumbles. So he says to me,

“Miss McNeil, have you been taking care of yourself?”

Of course, all I could think of was: oh shit, how did he get my name? I should have realized then that after doing this little job for him twice that he’d already know everything about me at a single glance, but I didn’t really know _who_ he was then like I do now. Now I’m not surprised. I wasn’t surprised when he told me that this baby is a boy nor was I surprised when he told me who the father is and when he laid out, in no uncertain terms, exactly what was going to happen to the man. I’m ashamed to say I actually felt a little bad about it…but not really.

Sherlock asked me two questions that day; he asked me if I’d been taking care of myself and then he said, “Where did it happen?”

Just like that. Like he already knew I’d been…uh… _hurt_ …and he knew before I did about the pregnancy and right then and there, I was sunk. My mouth went dry when I met his gaze again, because dammit, I’ve never been defined by the hours I’ve spent roughing it so I’m not about to be labeled as a _victim_ , you know? I pointed in a vague direction and he nodded at me, a sort of light came over his face and I lost it.

Everything started spinning and the next thing I knew, I was leaning forward and blubbering against him. He moved me and I found myself in the arms of someone a bit smaller but certainly broader across the chest. I couldn’t stop crying and I felt like such a baby but there was just this…this _trust_ that made me feel like I was going to be okay.

“John, stay with her, call Lestrade. I’m going to see if there’s any evidence left.” The firm hand around my shoulders moved slightly as the smaller man, obviously John, nodded his head. At least I think that’s what happened. Knowing them now, it was probably what would be termed ‘eye sexing’ by anyone under the age of eighteen.

“It’s been three days,” I said into John’s jacket. I remember it being so warm and feeling like I could melt into it and wondering if he even knew what I was talking about. Somehow, all the physical pain I’d been ignoring—somehow—chose that moment to reappear, too. I must have groaned or something because he shifted a little, but neither of us fell.

After that, my head continued to spin. A big copper with silver hair and brown eyes showed up, muttered something about ‘not my division’ under his breath and had a quiet conversation with John. Right there on the pavement! John was discreet, he didn’t give the other man too many horrible details (Later I found out that once my mouth started running, I couldn’t shut up, even though I have absolutely no memory of it at all. John says it was a matter of finally being able to share my burden and the memory loss part is me blocking it out which is blessing and a curse. He says to make sure on the day I feel that dam break, I should be sure and be around friends. )

A couple of lady cops showed up after that, including this lady with black hair and a snub nose. She didn’t seem very delighted when Sherlock came back to us, but then most people act like that around him. He said some stuff about ‘evidence’ and I stopped listening to much of anything after an ambulance pulled up. I got inside with the lady cop, she said her name is Sally, and she actually held my hand while she asked me a bunch of questions, most of which I couldn’t answer. I remember that I kept repeating, ‘it was dark and it hurt’ like some sort of mantra which really bothers me now, but at the time, I was out of it.

How can I talk about this now? I don’t know. I’ve cried, I’ve begged, I’ve been angry, so maybe I’m still in shock or perhaps John Watson is a better doctor than he gives himself credit for being. He makes everything better simply by existing.

No, I didn’t make that up, Sherlock said it once. I don’t think I was supposed to hear it, but I did. It fit, so I adopted it. Sure, thanks, I’ll take a cup.

Bleh! I hate this decaf stuff. I know, needs must and all that. As soon as this little bundle decides to be home free, I’m waiting about five minutes and I am begging for some real tea.

With sugar!

Where was I? Oh, John and Sherlock met us at the hospital, apparently John’s on staff there, and he asked me point blank if I’d reported what happened to me and then asked if I _wanted_ to report it. It was my choice, though he felt, as a doctor, that I should at least have a pelvic exam, all things considered. Well, I believed Sherlock when he said he’d get the guy so I agreed to the report and to the exam, but I told John I’d feel better if my doctor was a woman.

He didn’t get pissy about it, found me a doctor and then Sherlock said they’d wait on me to come out. I remember Sally looking at him as if he’d grown another head. I shrugged and thanked them. Then Sally looked at me as if I had another set of arms or something. I remember being so tired by that time that it didn’t register until later—apparently very few people know Sherlock for who he really is.

Ah, I see our time is growing a bit short today. I came out of the hospital and I was shaking really badly. I had gotten dressed in the clothes I’d been wearing for several days, save for my underwear and I’ve got to say that was really, really weird. John and Sherlock had been talking when I came out, and they both stared at me for a moment but didn’t say anything. John stood up and offered me his hand like a gentleman and I’m sure I laughed a little bit.

“Sherlock, tell him we’ll take the car.” John told Sherlock as I took his hand. I remembered then, seeing the two of them around, and I decided that must be why I felt like I could trust him. There’s something so special in the way they work together—like, if there are gods up there and they have these patterns for every person, right? They all went to work making patterns one day and one held up a Sherlock-shaped one, and another one held up a John-shaped one and they just _fit_ , yeah?

The first job I did for Sherlock, he’d not even introduced himself, only produced a photo out of thin air after stepping right up to me in the park one day. I can recall it was Spring, but not much else. I saw the guy in the photo, did my best to remember everything about him and when Sherlock reappeared, he had this shorter, yellow-haired man with him. I told him everything I could and he palmed me a twenty pound note. The rest, as they say, is history. Or _her_ story depending on how I feel when I actually tell this story, right?

So, anyway, hopefully that answers your questions about the how and the why. I’m here today to help out the best I can because Sharon got a real job working in a launderette, I think she’s sweet on Joseph, honestly, and the other girl that shares our flat, Abby, well, she’s a full-time student now. With her luck, she’s found herself some Sugar Daddy who’ll actually take care of her and has the ability to overlook the way her brain don’t always work right.

Look, I’ll be right back, okay? Just need to use the loo. Be a love and move that chair for me? Thank you. Ugh. Could you just tie that boot lace for me, too, please? Sorry, I just can’t reach it right now. Alright, I’ll be right back.


End file.
